Page 60 of Hate You More

“I’m sorry?” As her head whips back, her hair catches on her lipstick. I shove my hands in my pockets.

“If the crew arrives after seven a.m. to start work.”

“It’s your place.”

“But you’ll be living here.” My stomach tenses at that. “I know it’s not ideal, but—”

“Honestly, it’s fine. You saw where I was staying. This is practically the Ritz compared.”

“Okay.” But I still feel defensive. Like I need to explain the unexplainable. It’s not like I can’t afford to live somewhere else for convenience. I just don’t want to.

“This is a beautiful sin,” Clara says, changing the subject, like she knows what’s going on in my head. Her dainty fingers glide along the marble, the thin band on her hand catching the light. Piece-of-shit ring. “Oh, I like these.” Like a magpie, her attention is caught by the tile samples I’m supposed to give an opinion on. My opinion is You’re the interior designer, so design.

I cough, and her attention pings back. “Despite the mats and the plastic, the crew don’t come through this part of the house.”

“They use a service entrance,” she intuits.

“Yeah. Anyway, you can pretty much hang out here whenever. I’ll be at work a lot. Evenings, weekends.”

“I’ll be sure to keep out of your hair otherwise.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No, but we agreed that our private lives . . .” Her words trail off, but I hear the next part anyway. No emotional expectations.

“I’ve gotta get back to the office this afternoon.”

“Oh . . . kay.” Her expression must reflect her thoughts, but fuck if I can work them out. Her phone begins to ring. “Excuse me,” she murmurs, making for the window. I don’t think it’s me she’s hiding from but the noise. “Hi, Chel. All good. You?” A pause. “Well, that’s great. I’m super happy to hear it. No, I don’t need to see. Okay. Can you hold a minute?” She presses her phone to her shoulder and turns her attention my way. “They offered Chelsea five thousand dollars.”

Five thousand dollars for our wedding photograph. I ponder the number for a minute. “She should tell them seven. Maybe she’ll get six.”

She nods and tells Chelsea just that, then murmurs her goodbyes.

“Thanks for letting her do that,” she says, setting her phone next to my keys. “It means a lot.”

To her or to her friend? I don’t need to know. “Might as well let someone make a few bucks from breaking the news.”

“Should we share it to our own social media accounts?” Her nose scrunches. “I have Instagram, though I haven’t used it in a while.”

I give a shrug. “The algorithm on my account probably has a DNR.” The one person guaranteed to see any post is my mother. I guess posting to Instagram is one way to break the news. “Let’s wait awhile.”

“It’s not like we’re a couple of celebrities. Well, I’m not.”

“The press will be just as interested in you as me.”

“Please.” She gives a cute snort, then turns to slip off her coat, revealing an exquisite slice of pale back.

Boundaries, I repeat in my head. Because that dress and that body just scramble my brain.

As she turns back, she catches me staring. She says nothing as she slides away a stray hair.

“You’re the elusive one in this partnership.” I’m not happy with how throaty the words sound, but I’m saved from further embarrassment by the buzz of the intercom. I move to answer it.

“Mr. Templeton, there’s a Mr. Perez from—”

“Northern Lights,” I finish. “Thanks, Aziz. Send him up. The remodel crew’s foreman,” I explain as I turn.

“Should I leave?” She points over her shoulder, but I’m not sure I want to find her in my bedroom after this. I shake my head.